


Green Eggs & Ham

by RaeC



Series: The Chaos Chronicles [1]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-10
Updated: 2000-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeC/pseuds/RaeC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Total chaos reigns supreme. Dr. Suess invades. The muses revolt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Eggs & Ham

**Author's Note:**

> That's Poe-ta-toes! Not sheep! You know, as in potato, poetatoe, tomato, toematoe. <snicker> //end.

Once upon a time, there were two women drinking coffee (or tea) at the dining room table, pondering the existence of muses, plot bunnies and the various states of uncompleted fanfic in general residing on their hard drives. Meanwhile the Brothers Grimm, unbeknownst to the women, had stolen a machine from the Ghostbusters, blasting two bickering muses trying desperately to get their authors' attention away from their midnight meanderings. 

The muses, bickering over not being the Prime Focus of their authors' attention, had attracted the notice of muses from outside the realm of the authors' fandoms as well... 

"Please continue the petty bickering. I am learning much." 

"What!?!? Who was that!" 

"Data, tarsh. You know, Star Trek." 

"Oh. The android. Oops? Maybe we **should** do it here, then!" A feral grin crept across tarsh's face as an idea began to form. 

The muses, upset at the turn of events, began to protest... 

"Oh No! Not the 'one of our boys is dead and talking to the other again', plot line. Hey, Jack? Can't we both just be dead?" 

tarsh sighed and grumbled a bit but added the extra details. "All **right** then. You're both dead. Happy now?" 

Daniel, happy for the moment to not be the only one dead, nodded his head and joined in on the fun. 

Two glowing /ghosts/ appear. One reaches for the other. His hand passes through his erstwhile lover, through tarsh, and part way into the computer in front of her. 

"Uh, Danny? What have you gotten us into now?" 

"Er, what?" 

"Do you notice anything in particular here?" 

"Yeah, **we're** both dead. And?" 

"Yeah, and I can't touch anything. You, the computer,..." and pointing in the direction of the writer, "her." 

"This is **my** fault?" 

"You started it with that comment to the 'boffing' post. You just couldn't leave it alone could you? Had to go and wake Rae's plot bunnies." 

"Hey! tarsh did that, not me." 

"Riiiightttt." 

One of the writers interrupts hastily, 

"Hold it right there boys. I hear my name taken in vain." 

Two ghostly glares aim themselves at tarsh, who ducks before she can stop herself. 

"Damn it, at least **you** guys don't have swords." tarsh mutters. The muses ignore the interfering female to get back to the story in hand. (Before the writers lose control again, and **it** slips out of hand.) 

// editorial break: we **had** control? Damn, Rae, you never told me that!// 

"Since we're on the topic anyway, Jack, did you do it?" Daniel inquires not-so-gently, shifting his gaze from the quaking woman at the computer to glare at Jack. Having been reminded of his recent ghostly state and the cause... 

//editorial break here. 

"I did **not** quake. I **ducked**. Got that, Rae? Jack? Daniel? I do not 'quake'!" 

Rae snarfs. "That's not the story Methos tells..." she grins, evilly. Very, very evilly. So evilly, in fact, that every wave/particle of light in the room is sucked into the depths of her grin and extinguished in endless darkness... ahem. Yes. Where were we? 

"As Methos himself has said, 'why would [he] tell the truth?' Trust me on this, I was not quaking. I wasn't even shaking a little bit. **All** I did was duck... 

"Well, and protect the laptop..." 

"See! You were quaking! I can see it now! 'Must protect laptop at all costs!'" 

"...or at least, at costs under that of a new 'puter..." tarsh grins. (not an evil grin. Not a grin even remotely attractive to light wave/particles, in fact.) 

"Uh-huh. Methos may not tell the whole truth, but he certainly does tell some of it. What's the first rule of good drama?" 

"Build small and start. Wasn't that it, Methos?" 

"No, Pretty Frocks." The sprawling muse adds before he taking a long swig from the ever present bottle of beer. 

"Pretty Frocks?! Pretty **Frocks**????" tarsh begins, indignantly. Daniel, somewhat afraid she will choke on her splutters, thumps her on the back. The sensation his hand makes passing through her spine shocks both of them, so that they stand there for endless moments, wide eyes peering startled at one another. 

"Ah, yes," tarsh manages eventually, the irritated tone of Jack's mutters at his lover finally getting through to her, if not the exact meaning of them. "Quite right. Yes. Pretty Frocks. Gotcha, Methos." 

"Uh-huh. Oh, by the way, did I ever tell you that I sell ocean front property...in Arizona? I have the perfect spot. It has your name written all over it. A big "X" too, but I'm not sure why the guys insisted on painting it on the ground." 

"Oh, really? Wonderful! Never been to arizona. I'll send Obi over tomorrow with the payment..." tarsh replies enthusiastically. "And they already put the 'X' in? Oh, that's just too sweet! Thanks guys!" 

"Yeah! It's a great place. From the front porch, you can see the sea. Beautifully landscaped. All that and a bag of chips. Do you prefer Ruffles or Lays?" 

"Oh, Ruffles, please. And tell Obi not to eat them on the way home! Been a while since I lived near the sea... it'll be nice to watch it during storms again. Looking forward to taking possession... tell me, is the back yard very large?" 

"Well...according to Napoleon, a backyard will only cost you a dollar an acre ..." 

//Right. Back to the petty arguments. 

Hold on a minute. Why is it never front to the petty arguments? I mean, if they're arguments, no matter how petty, wouldn't it make more sense to keep your front to them? That way, they'll never stab you in the back... what? Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, yeah. Right. Front to the petty arguments.// 

As the authors bicker over the cause of one's blustering protestations to the contrary, the muses continue their conversation, heedless of the authors' apparent lack of control. Or, perhaps, revelling in it... 

"Do what? Oh not that again! For Christ's sake, Daniel!" 

"Well, how do you explain it, Jack? You were moaning!" 

"Of course I was moaning. The guy hit me!" 

"Riiight. That's why you've got those scratches on your back, because he hit you. Suuuure." 

"I fell, Daniel! FELL down a hill filled with bushes after I was hit with the stun gun!" 

"Tell another one, Jack. Got another leg to pull here. I suppose they were five fingered shrubs?" 

//editorial comment: "We must ride to save the shrubbery! My kingdom for a shrub. Or was that a horse?" 

"I believe it was a nail. I have one if you'd like. Although with that nice Arizona ocean view property, I have no need of a kingdom right at present..." //end commercial break. 

Another voice appears, breaking into the full-blown argument erupting amongst the agitated men. 

"Er, ah, guys? Isn't this how you how you became ghosts in the first place?" 

In unison, the men bite back. "Butt out!" 

"Okay, okay!" Rae raises her hands and walks a short distance off. "Fickle muses. Can't live with them, can't torture them." 

And so the authors continue with their own petty bickering... 

"Actually, Rae," tarsh decides to enlighten her fellow writer, "you **can** torture them. See?" and she points to a piece on her hard drive that Methos has sworn will never see the light of day... 'good thing it's 3:30 am here,' she thinks idly to herself. Otherwise, she could have a **really** dangerous muse on her hands... a five thousand year old intellect is not really something it's wise to piss off, not even theoretically... 

"Er, tarsh? Now I'll be the first to admit, evidenced by my own hard drive and a few select stories already put out on the web, that muses are **highly** \- well...fragile. But...not when they are... ephemeral!!!!" Rae paces the room, irritated at this turn of events. "I mean all you can do is **angst**! No h/c, no cuddling, no **sex**! I do not like this Sam I am." 

"But, Rae, this non corporeality of theirs **is** a torture all by itself! Besides, you **adore** angst! I submit for your consideration Evidence Exhibit A: one webpage, containing fanfiction in the Highlander and Stargate SG-1 fandoms." 

"I know! I know! And therein lies my problem! DAMNITALLTOHELLO, what's this?" 

"Excuse me," a slightly diffident voice interrupts the two Writers, "but, well... shouldn't you be talking about torturing us where we **can't** hear? You know, out of... suspense... or something like that?" 

"Or," interrupts an utterly non diffident voice, "at the very least so we don't skip out on the big scenes in advance..." 

tarsh looks at Rae. "Well, they have a point..." 

"Yes, and I have several well sharpened ones with their names on them...only I'm suffering from a lack of **substance** on which to employ them! Egon, would you please hurry with that machine? tarsh, never ever let Ghostbusters out of their box unattended, no matter how hard small children plead." 

"Well, that's easily solved, Rae. Simply make the well sharpened points ethereal ones. Then they'll slide right on in with hardly a hitch." 

"Oh right! Then I'll need to employ a ghostly power to shoot the damn things, and I'm fresh out of "Ghost" at the moment. The particular parties having been absconded by Heaven and Hell respectively, if you catch my drift? And no, this has absolutely **nothing** to do with Tommy Lee Jones." 

"Oh, and for the technically minded amongst us, how **do** you manage to get names on a point, anyway? Given that, technically, anything wide enough to carve letters (or names!) on is no longer a point, but a line or a rectangle..." tarsh realizes she's in danger of betraying her dabblings in the heretical field of mathematics, and trails off. 

"Well, first of all you put their names on the side of the point, not the actual point itself. And secondly,...have you met my little friend? Meet Mr. Needle. Nice square head. Can you say pain? Sure you can." 

"Uh..." tarsh gulps, eyeing Rae's needle nervously. "Yeah, right. Okay. Got it. The side of the point. Right. Sure. Uh, do you want to borrow a muse to aim that thing at? The duncanmuse-that-isn't is still corporeal, I believe?" 

"And you!" Rae turns on the muses who'd had the nerve to fall from the plot line. "Back to the story!" 

"Sarcasm does not become you." Intoned a third voice... 

"Generally not, no" responds a fourth. "Sarcasm not coming equipped with actual cloning properties, or anything. Makes it difficult for the transformation to occur, never mind stick." 

"Egon...not that I'm complaining here...but couldn't you have at least made the **fix** less...messy?" 

"Well, since you're not complaining... probably. Yes. Why?" 

"Why do I bother? Because now we'll have to clean it up! Hello!" 

"Um, but didn't we already exchange greetings tonight? Oh, and that's why we brought the hoover, no?" 

"No, that was for carpet cleaning. We need a wet/dry vac for this mess." 

A shout of "Damnit Danny!" causes the bickering voices to look back (and what does a voice look like, anyway? Short and squat, or tall and round? Skinny, skelly, skolly, or skally?). One ghostly figure is struggling to maintain its hold on the other, and in the process shedding ectoplasm everywhere- 

"Ewwweeeh! I've been slimed!" Rae yelps disgustedly. "tarsh! Do something! Next thing you know the Staypuff Marshmallow Man will make an appearance. " 

"Really? Wonderful. Have you got the flame thrower primed yet Jack? I always did like toasted marshmallows... " 

"Would you prefer to drown in it, or be crushed by it?" Jack enquires sweetly... 

"uh..." 

"Woah! Back up! I thought we couldn't touch each other?" 

"Editorial licence, Jack," tarsh replied somewhat smugly. What was it Patrick Stewart said? 'This is science fiction, we can do things like that'..." 

"'And here I thought it was our imaginations.'" Rae laughs quietly behind her hand. "'If you dream it, they will come.'" 

"NO! WAIT!!!! Not on the...artifacts." 

"Oops? Sorry 'bout the artefacts, Danny... you'll just have to lick 'em 

clean, I guess... I'm sure Jack won't have any objections..." 

Meanwhile, turning with speed heretofore unimagined, Jack lets loose a spray of bullets. tarsh sighs and protects her computer from the ricochets, **not** quaking even the ittiest iota. When finally all the bouncing and rebounding and noise has died done, Rae, tarsh, and Daniel peer in slightly stunned incomprehension at the bloody mess that was probably once something approximating human. 

"Well," Jack comments, blowing imaginary smoke from his ghostly gun, "we may be dead, but at least our bullets still impact upon the living world. Never could stand Kevin Costner." 

Rae begins counting to herself. 

"One." 

Sheep. 

//excuse me while we pause for a commercial break: "Have you ever suffered from the debilitating effects of Literary Addiction?" Camera pans off in the distance toward a female being pulled away from her collection of books, which litters every available surface. All the while she is screaming internet archive addresses at the populace. "The Loft!" "Due South" "The Highlander Net Cafe!" "HLQC!" "Area 52" "The Vampire Chronicles Online!" "M-A" "WWOMB" 

"Wombat?" 

"No, WWOMB, the Wonderful World of Make Believe. Another **drug** pusher in the fic world on the net. These poor folks suffer from more than just an addiction to such Literary classics as Tolstoy's "War and Peace", or Dickens "Tale of Two Cities". No; the victims of this dreaded disease suffer a thing far, far more terrible. They suffer from (whispering in horror) not being able to let one particle of the written word pass by their eyes - or fingers, as the case may be." 

Click. Boring channel. We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast lineup. //end commercial break. 

"Two." 

Sheep. 

'Deep breath.' 

"Three." 

Sheep. Four. 

//editorial note: That's Poe-ta-toes! Not sheep! You know, as in potato, poetatoe, tomato, toematoe. <snicker> //end. 

//converse editorial note: That's sheep! She-eep. Sheep. Trust me on that, there were a lot where I grew up. I had ample (too ample if you ask me) to observe the principle in action. It's **sheep**.//end. 

//yet another editorial note: No, it's potato. Do I need to drag out the Big Book of Children's Nursery Rhymes? I know you've had a somewhat unconventional upbringing, but not even NZ would change a rhyme that much. Would they? And besides, sheep is too close to another four legged creature with horns, and if you start off on that tangent, you know where that will lead right? Rae mutters not nice things about particular poets and their fondness for "Doc" and Laudanum and farm animals.//end yet another useless editorial note. <eg>

//again? Yes! Again!: Well can you blame him when it comes to Doc? I mean, just **look** at the man! That take-me-now-damnit sprawl, those eyelashes, that half-smile... //Author temporarily unavailable to finish comment. Please wait for her to re-solidify// 

'Patience is a virtue.' 

'Patience is a virtue.' 

'Patience is a virtue.' 

'Oh what the hell, I lost all of mine years ago.' Rae mumbles to herself. "Jack, now what in tarnation am I supposed to do with the Dancing Wolves?" 

//editorial comment: just what is tarnation anyway? A nation of tar? wouldn't that be awfully... sticky?//end. 

"Have Perrin take care of them." Jack shrugs, not in the least feeling guilty. The wide, satisfied grin on his face never wavers for a second. 

"But he's a werewolf. WERE WOLF. Besides, my contract with the muse council states that he will **never** be required to dance. Especially in wolf form." 

"So, call it prancing... <eg> Nothing like keeping to the letter of the agreement, especially when it comes to dealing with them pesky muses and that council o' theirs!" tarsh advises, sotto voce. 

"But then the starbellied snetches would have none on thars!" Rae protests energetically. 

Jack shrugs. "Not my problem. Daniel? Any suggestions?" 

"Oh no, Jack. I'm not being drug into this one. You brought this one on all by yourself. Typical military. Shoot first, ask questions later. Which brings me back to the original topic... 

"Did you **have** to slip me that psychoactive hallucinogen with my coffee? I mean, I know you're hung up on the past tense of drag, but wasn't drugging me to make your point going just a **bit** far? 

"And I suppose now you're going to try and tell me that that's **not** a hickey on your throat!" 

"Um, Danny? It **is** a hickey." 

"And furthermore- what did you say?" 

"It's a hickey." 

<cough, splutter, choke> "You're going to stand there and tell me you let that ... that... **boy**..." 

"Daniel. Daniel! **You** put it there..." 

"Well, what do you know?" tarsh asks the world at large somewhat bemusedly. "Hey, Rae, seems ghosts **can** blush, after all..." 

"We are borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile." 

//editorial comment: uh-oh... <squeak, bang, thump> We are Borg. Resistance is futile.// 

~~~ 

Meanwhile, in a dining room far, far away, but not too far, in fact not far at all, in fact it very well could be the same dining room... 

~~~ 

"Well, according to Methos, no. But then, nobody's too old for **anything** , according to Methos... <snicker>" 

"Ah, a man after my own heart. <eg> There was this film..." 

"Cocoon?" tarsh interrupts, brightly. 

"Bingo! Oh wait, that was a dog. <snicker> You get two points!" 

"Two? Gee, so I guess that's one to use on Jack, and one to use on Daniel... what about Methos? What do I get for him?" 

"The World According to Garp." All light wave/particles suddenly disappear from the room, drawn despite themselves to disappear in the direction of Rae's face. Blinking in the total darkness resulting, tarsh concludes, correctly, that Rae has once again displayed her very, very evil grin... 

"Uh," she gulps, shivering. "Garp? Here?" she looks nervously about, staring into the black depths surrounding here. "Uh, Methos?" she calls tentatively. 

"Give me a hand, here? I think Rae's just called a Garp muse into existence..." 

~~~ 

In a strange twist of timelines, the writers are left blinking in the sudden light of a new conversation... 

~~~ 

"Well, you were complaining about the NC-17 we were converting Dr. Seuss to, and you still want us to slash them here, there, and everywhere?" 

"Nah, that was just fodder for the plot bunny canon to get you to write the Jack/Daniel scene with the boys arguing over Jack's **supposed** infidelity with an underaged lad, that never in the **strictest** sense happened." 

"It never happened in **any** sense, Rae, and you better believe it!" 

"Well, that's what Daniel thought... **not** me. You're the one sporting the hickey and the five finger discount on skin." 

"Now, Jack, put the gun down... you know you can't just kill the Writer..." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I have a pen and I'm not afraid to use it." Rae snickers as she takes the eraser on the pen and wipes away Jack's gun, leaving the muse sputtering, empty-handed. 

~~~ 

And, again, the timelines flip, leaving two hopelessly beSeussed writers in their wake... 

~~~ 

"Why, yes, yes I am. I am Sam. Sam I am." Rae snickers evilly, her eyes gleaming with a maniacal light. 

"So if we lace the green eggs or the ham with an appropriate, uh, inspirational agent, does that mean we'll get somewhere?" tarsh responds, completely oblivious to the barrage she is about to unleash... 

"Would you like it here or there?" Rae demands, and before she can stop herself tarsh catches herself answering... 

"Well, there. I mean all i'm gonna do is ship it to you... so there is definitely less postage involved <g>. I might like it there, not here." 

"Would you like it in a house? With a mouse?" 

"Well, I know I wouldn't like it in a plane or on a train. The postage would simply be ruinous there! Not here! Maybe there! But not on a plane! Not in a train!" 

"Would you slash them in a box? Would you slash them with a fox? <snarf>

//editorial comment: damn, I thought you caught all the snarfs last time you went snipe-hunting with Teal'c, Jack? There's still loose ones running about, maybe you should call another hunt?// 

"Would you? Could you? In a car? Slash them! Slash them!! Here they are!" 

"Well... in a car? I would not! Could not! In a car! 

"I'm too damn old for that! 

"And in a box! Come on, how pretzeled are we supposed to get for a little nooky? There are easier ways, I'm telling you! And as for with a fox... bestiality just skyrockets the age ratings, you know? Not in a box! Not with a fox! Not in a train, not on a plane, not over a house, not under a mouse! I will not slash them, Sam I am! I do not like this game you plan!" 

// "Who said there had to be nooky? All I said was you could **use** a box and a fox!!!! I'm not upgrading this here, (er, what the hell is this we are writing?) to NC-17 just to make it fit Dr. Suess." 

"Well, you're the one calling us to slash them here, slash them there, let us slash them everywhere!" 

tarsh blinks, overcome by the weirdest sense of deja-vu. Haven't we been here already? 

"No, wait. Isn't that the Scarlet Pimpernel?" 

"ACK!!!! I haven't seen that one yet. Movie, book, or A&E version?" 

"Musical, actually." <cue evil maniacal laughter>

"OOOOOOOOOOklahoma is the place I love..." Oh wait, wrong musical, right? On a Clear Day You Can See Forever? Camelot? Zigfield Follies? Singing in the Rain? "Oh, I'm singin' in the rain, just singin' in the rain. What a glorious feelin', I'm happy again..."//end ramble. 

"Perhaps a tree? You will like it. Just you see..." 

"Up a tree? Not with me! None will like it, leave us be!" 

"Not in a box, never use a fox, Not in a house, not chasing a mouse, Not here, but maybe there... 

Anywhere? A train, A train! Would you? Could you? In a train?" 

"No! Not with a train, not out a plane (those uncomfortable seats! Those 

tiny bathrooms! That lack of legroom!), not from a house, not on a mouse, not up a box, not in a fox, not over a tree, not under with tea!" 

"Say? In the dark? Here in the dark! Would you, could you, in the dark?" 

"In the dark? On the park? With a lark? To a bark? Hark? Hark! Would I? Could I? On your mark... " 

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door---- 

Only this and nothing more." 

The two writers sat sipping coffee as the late hour pressed upon them again. 

"So, do we need more sleep or less sleep to do this right?" tarsh muses absently, picking chocolate off a wrapper with her fingers. 

Rae snickers, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes..."A little bit of both...Mambo #5!" 

"Hmm. So are we getting better, or worse? And which is the preferable direction to go?" tarsh grins back, barely able to hold her cup steady. Damn steads, never did want to cooperate with the rest of the world... 

"Bloody hell. Neither it seems." Wiping the stray moisture from her face, Rae held the laughter back, a snort or two sneaking through despite her best efforts. 

"Cheeky bugger." The females paused their conversation at the sudden influx of armed militants entering the room. With the insignia of Rico's Rangers marking their shoulders, the force gunned for the new breed of bugs with cheeks, failing to notice that the only inhabitants of room were human in nature. Machine gun fire strafed the walls, floor, and rafters bringing the entire building down upon all the hapless denizens of the caffeine-induced psychogenic realm. 

"Well, there's one thing to be said for being a ghost..." Rae wandered about her former lodgings, determined to lift pad and pen from the floor. 

"What's that?" tarsh piped up as she picked her way across the rubble toward her friend, clutching her laptop protectively in her arms. 

"We can only be **knocked off** once." Rae smiled. An evil, satan-spawned smile to be sure. "What is it that they say about making your own hell? Got your pen handy? One fish, Two fish, Red fish, Blue fish..." 

"Oh, boy! Al! Al!!!" 

~~~ 

And thus concludes our unscheduled programing for the day. All rise for 

the National Anthem... 

"Yeah, but **whose** national anthem? I vote for mine, if only because the damned thing is shorter. Unless of course," tarsh pauses speculatively, "you had duelling anthems in mind...? 

End 


End file.
